


Calendar

by ChaoticCrimson



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pre-Slash, Ricktatorship, everyone from the time appropriate group is mentioned, how do you tag, i dont even know, rick centric, rick loves his wife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:02:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticCrimson/pseuds/ChaoticCrimson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between s2 and s3</p><p> </p><p>Rick can remember when dates were important; squares on a calendar, dictating how society ran in the form of marked history.</p><p>OR</p><p>Rick thinks a lot and then goes hunting with Daryl for New Years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calendar

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for my bestie Agentdibbs over on tumblr, as she's trying to kick my butt back into writing.
> 
> Different than my usual writing style, entirely written and posted from a mobile, and my first foray into fandom. Hope you enjoy!

Rick can remember when dates were important; squares on a calendar, dictating how society ran in the form of marked history. Dale had believed in keeping track of time, at least relatively, for that reason. He'd said it was important. The man had been their heart and fate had seen fit to destroy him before setting Shane and hundreds of walkers on a course to shred the rest of their naivete. 

Poetically it's fitting, in a morbid way. Shane would have appreciated it there at the last, were he not so focused on getting Rick out of the way. Personally, Rick doesn't find another man's death very picturesque, and even if he would have once, reality has forced all poetry from the deputy. He lost it somewhere between his best friend's blood pouring over his hands and his wife's disgusted retreat.

When Beth speaks up, she's holding a small notebook before her like a shield. Her young face is gaunt with fatigue and malnourishment behind lanky blond locks, but there's a thread of warmth to her voice when she says, "It's New Years Eve."

They've set up camp in a squalid little farmhouse on a barren plot of land, less like the one they've left behind and more like the meth cookhouses Rick used to find in raids. There's a hole in the ceiling where the roof caved in, pieces of it shoved into the corner in a jagged pile that no one had cared enough to clean. Empty alcohol bottles radiate from the dilapidated tweed couch like a bomb's epicenter, bits of broken glass scattered here and there where his group has made an attempt at something liveable. It's dirty, filthy, and unsafe, but the virtue of walls and boarded windows make it better than outside. Barely.

The group is scattered throughout the little livingroom in their various little niches, save for Daryl, who sits askance in the doorway behind him, crossbow at the ready. Haggard faces peer up at the break in silence, some momentarily confused at the comment relative to something so societal. Of them all it's Hershel who looks the most effected, wizened face growing pinched behind his beard. Rick doesn't try to guess the why. There are too many possibilities.

For a moment it seems the news will pass without further remark until Glenn speaks up. "Insane to think we've only been together a few months," he says. "It feels like longer."

Less than a year before, Rick was in a coma. Everything has gone to hell so quickly. These thoughts, or some like it, come and go on each face but Maggie's. The young woman gives a thin lipped smile instead, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. Their fingers tangle easily between them, comfortable despite the hell they live in, and Rick finds himself looking at Lori.

She's looking back at him, beautiful despite the sallow hue to her face. She tries to smile, and Rick wants to accept it, wants to feel the knot in his chest ease at the timid affection. Instead he feels the ice in his veins shift to the surface, and he's reminded of those same lovely eyes wide with horror at the barely dried blood on his hands. He nods and looks away with only a faint stirring of regret.

T-dog, perched on the one cushion of the couch Lori isn't occupying, gives a sullen, "Happy goddamn new year," and kicks an empty bottle.

The following silence is brittle, settling in Rick's bones like longstanding fatigue. The brief attention fades away to nothing, Beth looking discouraged at her notebook, as they each settled back into various states of consciousness and activity. Behind the couch, Carol begins to hone her knife and the sound sings against Rick's nerves until the edge hes balancing on feels too sharp. He isn't sure if it's better or worse that it stops when he stands.

All eyes are on him. Carl stirs from his ratty blanket, eyes hollow beneath the deputy hat, and Rick feels a surge of anger; not at his people, this fucked up little family he's kept together through willpower alone, but for the circumstances that brought him to the point of watching his son slowly starve and loathing the sight of the woman he loves. In that instant he can't stand it, and he looks to the one person he trusts at his back.

Daryl is already on his feet. His nod alone eases some of the tension in Rick's chest, and that gives him the peace of mind to look around the room.

"Go ahead and break open another can," he tells Maggie, who furrows her brow a bit as she touches their supplies. "Daryl and I will go out and see if we can track anything."

He knows it's a mostly pointless endeavor; they all do. Maggie still nods and drags one of the packs close in compliance, worrying her lips together in silence. Only Carl poses the question, sitting up fully from his slump against the wall.

"Dad?" he asks.

Rick turns away. "To make up for Christmas," he says, thinking of them all huddled in cars for the evening, waiting for Daryl's return. "T, you're on watch," he adds, and strides from the room.

He doesn't have to make sure Daryl is there when he reaches the entrance; he can feel it, a presence just as real as the gun holster against his thigh or the knife on his belt. It's comforting, which should be strange considering their initial meeting but isn't. Rick tries not to think about it or wonder what Shane would say because Shane would have killed him to take control and have his wife. Instead he peers out one side of the door, waits for the silent acknowledgement that all is clear from the bowman, and eases out the door with Daryl on his heels.

They are at least a hundred yards from the house, nearly at the fence line of the tiny field plot, before Rick realizes he doesn't have a direction. He stops, but Daryl seems to have figured out the dilemma as he easily slinks into the lead, stalking with purpose. Following him is easy, performed without a second's thought, and at the reversal some of the tension fades from the foreground. It will never be gone, not while he retains responsibilities, but the lapse in dire urgency is a welcome change.

The trees are damp where pale strips of frost have melted during the course of the day, and brittle snow crunches beneath their boots, half defrosted. Daryl wanders a bit, time trickling by in the form of dwindling light rather than seconds on a watch, but Rick can't bring himself to mind. This quiet is different than the oppressive stillness, a matter of choice rather than smothered resentment and a sense of defeat. The gnarled landscape is almost pretty in its own way, and the deputy lets his mind wander a bit.

They've only run into two walkers, both easily dispatched by hunting knives. It's better than Rick expected, which brings his thoughts back to the group clustered in the house. Before he can really dwell, however, the bowman makes a sudden soft whistle and slips off into the trees at a rapid clip. Rick follows in an instant, admiring the silent way Daryl moves and keeping his eyes open for any threats along the way.

What Daryl finds is a fat squirrel, its cheeks still partially crammed full of whatever it had been eating. It isn't much, but it's better than the scraggly ones they've caught more recently, and the idea of real protein makes Rick's stomach clench with need. The bowman smirks, somewhere between legitimate pleasure and male posturing.

"This sucker should make em smile," he says.

Rick wonders when squirrel, especially only one, became a blessing. He doesn't voice the thought. "Hope so," he says instead.

Daryl nods, attaching his catch to his belt. The little head dip is something Rick has noticed composes a lot of the other man's reactions; simple and to the point. He nods back and they move on.

They hunt around a bit more, Daryl in the lead, Rick keeping up in silence. Recently, Rick has taken to asking questions about tracking whenever they go out, but today isn't one of those days; necessity has pulled the want of vocal learning clean away. Instead he settles for watching, which is just as interesting, if not quite as informative. He has no idea why Daryl stops at particular trees and ignores others, but he catalogues away anything he does notice.

It feels like an hour passes at most, but Rick's watch and the decline of light tells him otherwise. When Daryl stops, the deputy knows it's time to head back.

"Less than a year and we're reduced to this," Rick finds himself saying. The thought brings up images of Lori before things went bad, and his chest aches.

"Better n'bein dead," Daryl replies. He visibly hesitates, seeming to chew on his words a moment. "Y'aint done nothin' wrong, Rick. Doin' the best you can for 'em."

Rick watches Daryl. The bowman shifts his weight with obvious unease, but otherwise looks back without apology. Frank and to the point. The deputy looks skyward with a faint laugh, warmth blooming unbidden in his chest.

If he stares long enough, Rick begins to see faint traces of mistletoe clinging to the icy branches. The most he knows of the real thing is that it's parasitic, probably poisonous, and was largely replaced by holly for the more vapid holiday traditions, back when the world had real order. He thinks about how Daryl might react if it were mistletoe and Rick took advantage of it, here in the woods days after the excuse was viable. His secondary guilt over Lori is more pronounced only after he touches his ring.

Of course, it's all speculation. He could no more cheat than abandon her, and he isn't sure he even wants to kiss Daryl, certainly not enough to wreck his friendship or permanently destroy his sham of a marriage. Still, the idea of Daryl's shock, probably before a healthy dose of violence, makes Rick smile. Somewhere inside of him there exists a touch of smartass, even if his cheeks ache from disused muscles.

When he looks down again, Daryl is giving him a strange look, like Rick's thoughts have made themselves public. "What're you grinnin' at?"

"Think maybe we could find a bottle that isn't empty back at camp?" The deputy asks in lieu of reply. He's pretty sure Daryl wouldn't find humor in Rick's own thought process.

The other man accepts the change of topic with a shrug. "Prob'ly. Think we should look?"

Rick hums a 'maybe' and gestures for Daryl to start them back, falling into sync with him after a few steps. A snap of chill is starting to seep into the air, but he's not concerned; they'll make it before dark, and while the nagging, burning need to protect his family still jogs at the back of his mind, he feels human for the first time in a week.

"Happy New Years," he says, fingers playing with the hilt of his knife.

Daryl's lips soften for speech, something sarcastic judging by his expression, then purse tight as he seems to think better of it. He gives a faint "yeah" instead, bumping his shoulder against Rick's, and for just a second the deputy doesn't ache for the days and weeks ruled by little blank squares.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry Daryl your accent is too great for me.


End file.
